The Way of Grace
by PasDuTout
Summary: Everything she did, she did because she loved them. Because she loved him. Eames/OC
1. Chapter 1

**The Way of Grace**

****_-Evelyn-_

I hadn't heard her name in ten years.

Not once, unless uttered from my own lips. Sometimes it was while hunched over stacks of unimpressive essays in the chaos of my office. Sometimes it was while sharing a glass of wine with old colleagues, and speaking of fond memories. The frequency at which her name formed on my tongue lessened as the years rolled on, but never disappeared. She was always the dust-coated picture resting on my mantle. The beautiful face in the courtyard, and I could speculate that was reason behind my eagerness to meet with the stranger who claimed to know her.

He said it was urgent; important. Involving something that she wanted. Ten years and not a word from her. I knew it would be something that she _needed_, and I would be there for her. I would provide whatever she needed. Aid any trouble. If only I could know where she'd been all these years.

I tried my best to lecture, but the words never came out right. My mind was tainted with her memory. Names and dates poured from my mouth like a muscle reflex, but the humanities held no weight with me today. I thought of September 26th, fourteen years ago. She was twenty then; a mere sophomore, a fresh transfer from a lesser-known institution out of state. Without solid plans, but full of keen ambition.

It was the first day of fall term. I always arrived early, taking joy in standing behind the podium and watching as the seats slowly filled. Half these students took the course to simply fill a credit. A little less than that enrolled as a requirement. But there were always some who were there because they wanted to be. An overpowering curiosity and love of learning drew them through the door, and they stood out from the others as dramatically as a desert oasis.

She was of this relieving few. I had to have been skimming over my lecture notes, worn and weathered pages of highlighted chicken scratch, when she walked in. Just a whisper of a woman, without even the sound of a footstep. She glided over to the middle seat of the third row, let her tote fall to the ground. She removed a pad of paper, set it gently on her lap, looked up at me and smiled.

_Who are you?_

I wanted to know. I wanted to know where she came from, what brought her here; what drove her, what inspired her; what led her into my classroom and so easily into my mind? From that moment forward, she was always permanently engraved as my favorite student, and so much more. Every term students would come and go, faceless bodies occupying the middle of the third row. But that seat would always be hers.

Several students stopped me after class. I knew the stranger would already be waiting outside my office. They asked questions that could be answered if they simply picked up their textbook. They spoke of final project ideas, asked when I would return their last test. My answers were short and vague as I stuffed my notes and the textbook into my briefcase. I left them unsatisfied and coming to conclusions about the man I was, but I had no time to be cordial with these faces today. I left the hall and began my hurried trek across campus, quick as I could without running and looking like a fool. I dodged students and nodded to colleagues, cursing the difficult inclines along my path as age worked against me.

I saw the stranger before he saw me, and I took the opportunity to examine him as I approached. His posture was slacking, slid down a little in the chair, one leg up, ankle resting on the knee as he checked the time from a gold watch on his left hand. He wore a gainsboro gray suit, and the patterned shirt peeking out from the unbuttoned jacket was of a variety of blue stripes. There was a thickening scruff a few days in the making along the cheeks and chin of a handsome face, but his sandy brown hair was slicked to the side in a neat homage to the early 1960s.

_Who is this man to you?_

He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and his eyes shifted to my direction. He considered me for a moment, and then a small smile stretched the corners of his lips as he planted both feet on the ground and slowly brought himself to a standing position. "Doctor Morris." It wasn't a question; he already knew who I was. I caught the accent almost immediately through his deep and smoky tone. The pristine pronunciation of a native of our friends across the pond. He held his hand out to me when I was just a pace away and said, "Bill Eames, thank you for meeting with me."

His grasp was firm but polite, and I gave him a nod. "Of course," I said, "Anything for Evelyn."

Mr. Eames pressed his lips together in a tight smile, averting his gaze as I withdrew my keys to unlock the door. The space was small, enough for a desk and several chairs, a filing cabinet and a bookshelf. The bookshelf was overflowing, stacks of literature flanking either side and piled on the floor in front of it. The cabinet appeared to be in a similar situation, but it was not. A clutter of paper and folders lined the top simply because I did not have the time or desire to file it all away.

I cleared my desk a little because I knew I'd be having an important visitor. He'd already planted himself in a chair in front of my desk, not needing an invitation. His eyes, which I now saw were the color of dull pewter, searched all around him. They lingered on the bookcase, and the corners of his mouth tilted upwards once again.

I took a seat behind my desk and lightly set the briefcase down beside me. "So, Mr. Eames," I said, "Tell me, how is my long-lost favorite student?"

"It must seem strange," the stranger mused, "to have not heard from her in so long. And when you do, it is by message passed along through someone else." He let this hang in the air for a moment, and then continued, "She was never without you, though. She referenced you often throughout the years. You never saw her, but she was there. She liked to keep track of you, and make sure you were all right."

"Where is she?" I asked. My voice projected as weakly as I felt. _Why didn't you come to me? _

"She's dead, Doctor." The man's face hardened, but I could see the flash behind the dark eyes, the muscles of his jaw working in a ripple. His brow creased a ghost of a fraction, and his nostrils flared as his breathing grew shallow. I could see the importance of Evelyn to him in these details. Details were the only thing a man could see after receiving news like this.

I wouldn't cry. I couldn't. Not yet, at least. It'd been too long. Hearing that she was gone pressed on me as much as the news of a devastating natural disaster halfway around the world would. The initial telling would not affect me immediately. But as time grew on, and as I acquired detail, allowing myself and my soul to grasp the meaning of it, my heart would cripple. I knew.

Evelyn was gone. My sweet angel.

"I'm sorry." Mr. Eames captured my attention with the lamentation in his voice. A grieving he tried hard to cover up, but failed in the crack and whisper of his unfounded apology.

"How?" I asked. _Why?_

He did not answer immediately. He struggled to find the appropriate words, if he could find words at all. Mr. Eames shifted in his seat, resting his chin on his knuckles with an unfocused stare. "I must admit that I do often find myself asking that same question, Doctor," he said with a wry smile. "The answer is very troublesome. Very complicated." The breath of laughter he gave held no humor. "Indeed."

"How did you know her?" I suddenly wanted the man to leave. I wanted him to be gone, out of my office, out of my life, and I wanted him to take his news of Evelyn with him. But he was my one link to her. My one source of information. Everything I needed to know, it had to come from him.

He rubbed his hand across his mouth, and tried to sit up further, but only sank back down to his previous position. I noticed for the first time how tired he seemed. Defeated. "She was my wife," he said. I believed him.

"Did you have children?" The loss of a spouse was never easy, and the grief never lessened, but its distraction by the responsibilities of caring for a child often proved a blessing in disguise.

His brow creased over wide eyes, and his jaw muscles worked hard. "A son," he said.

I smiled despite myself. A son. And a beautiful boy he would be, if there was any of his mother in him. Inside and out. How sad it was that he would be without her. "Where did she go, Mr. Eames?" I asked. My chest tightened. My Evelyn. My student. _My daughter. _"Where has she been?"

"In good time, Doctor," he said. "This is why I'm here. She said if it ever came to this, then I should come to you. You are the person who will know what to do."

"What do you mean, sir?" I leaned back, feeling my face contort with curious confusion. Came to what? _What do you need me to do? _

"She wants you to tell her story. Our story."

"Why?" the question spilled from me before I could hold it back.

Mr. Eames looked at me like I'd just asked him how the Dow Jones was doing today. "It's what she wanted. Do you need any other reason?"

"No," I breathed. "Forgive me. This is…this is all very difficult to grasp."

He leaned forward in his seat and set on me a hard stare. "If you don't think that you are capable of doing this for Evelyn, tell me now. The woman you knew ten years ago is not the same woman that died last week. I knew the Evelyn you knew. It was the Evelyn I fell in love with, and I loved her even after she was gone. She was thrown into a world she was not ready for, and it destroyed her. But her life was beautiful, and it deserves to be shared."

_What happened to you?_

His eyes glossed and shifted away from my face. He looked down and leaned back in his seat as he shoved a hand into the pocket of his coat. When he withdrew his hand, a small red disk – perhaps a poker chip – rested between his middle and forefinger. He checked the time on his watch as he flipped the chip between his fingers.

"When is your flight?" I asked. I knew he was only here for the day.

"Two-thirty," he said.

"That isn't enough time." He should've been waiting for his plane in the terminal by now. An hour and a half would even begin to scrape evanescent layers off the whole of this being and her life. Maybe he was leaving it up to me to fill in events and places with the complex beauty and nature of the woman who occupied them. I would step up to the challenge, and I would do her honor and justice.

"Yes it is," Mr. Eames said, and navigated his hand inside his pocket once more. He withdrew another chip, but this one was not for poker. This chip, the width of two fingers and the length of a quarter, inserted into a computer. "Everything you need is on here. _Don't _lose it, and don't let it get into the wrong hands."

"Of course not," I said, taking the chip from him. The moment he released his hold on the small device, he stood, folding the two halves of his open jacket together.

"I'm afraid I must go. It was lovely to finally meet you."

I chose not to stop him with more questions. I chose to let him go. Something told me everything I needed to know would be answered on that device. I joined him on the other side of my desk with a handshake, and folded my free hand over our grasp in what I hoped was a comforting gesture. "Will I see you again?"

My darling's husband hesitated, drawing back a little. His lips parted, then closed again. Finally, he grasped my arm with a sad smile, and shook his head. "I don't think so."

It was the last I'd ever see of Mr. Eames. But our association had only begun.

* * *

_"The nuns taught us there were two ways through life - the way of nature and the way of grace. You have to choose which one you'll follow. Grace doesn't try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries. Nature only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it. And love is smiling through all things. The nuns taught us that no one who loves the way of grace ever comes to a bad end. I will be true to you. Whatever comes." -_The Tree of Life

Mmm, yes. By request of my readers, I have entered the world of Inception. This story...I have very high hopes for it. I just have to be patient with it, because I think it could turn out to be really, really beautiful.

I've been obsessing over this theory of nature versus grace. Not necessarily good versus evil, but still two opposing forces at an unrelenting struggle with each other. You might notice the theme sporadically in my other works, but it is going to have a major presence in this story. Also, I did much research trying to find a suitable first name for Eames. William was a frequent choice, however when you take into consideration his personality, his wardrobe, and overall sense of style, I didn't find it at all strange that he might call himself Bill when referencing his first name. Little quirk, I suppose. It'll be brought up again in later chapters :)

All right, do let me know what you think! Feedback will help me know where to take the story from here :) Thanks so much for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Way of Grace**_

_-Arthur and Eames-_

_"It's 1:17 a.m. in Bangladesh right now."_

The voice was a rumbling, crackling, hollow version of the one coming from a man that had sat in front of me only hours ago. There was a pause, a hiss of breath over the audio pouring from my computer's speakers. I assumed he might have been smoking a cigarette.

_"There's some sort of celebration carrying on down in the streets. It's possibly a riot. It's difficult to tell the difference. I've been here for…fifteen hours now. I've slept thirty-five minutes in the past forty-eight hours. Forgive me if the content of this recording isn't the easiest to decipher, Doctor."_

Another pause, and then, _"It's been six days. The men pursuing me are competent but slow. I don't think I am a top priority, but they are still working hard to tie this loose end, and they won't stop until they do."_

Mr. Eames sighed, and the audio crackled as he shifted. A dull bump sounded as he set his recording device onto a hard surface. _"Our son, his name is Thomas. Lynnie wanted to name him after you. It only seemed fitting. Born September 15__th__. He'll be five this year. Thomas is staying with a man named Dominick Cobb. He is safe there. If you wish to visit him – and please do, Doctor. You are the only grandparent he's ever known. The only we've ever spoke of. If you wish to see him, contact a man named Professor Stephen Miles. He's a lovely, lovely boy. So smart, so kind. So much of his mother in him."_

I picked up the pen lying in front of me and quickly wrote down the name. I didn't have time to ask myself how this man might have been associated with them, nor why I couldn't contact the man named Dominick Cobb directly. Mr. Eames had already moved on.

* * *

Arthur was told a woman would be stopping by today. Someone from higher up. He was warned to speak only when spoken to, to refrain from asking any questions, and to not, under any circumstances, refuse her anything or let her out of his sight. He didn't mind. In fact, he looked forward to the company. The team coming in today would be under for an overnight mission, and he needed a way occupy himself for several hours.

You could eat off the floor, but he felt the need for a last-minute sweep anyway. He shifted the cots closer together and set the PASIV on a small table at the center of the formation. He walked around the cots, weaved through them to all corners of the room to ensure easy accessibility. Then, he lifted the lid on the case, stretched and connected tubes, sanitized needles, and triple-checked Somnacin levels as he waited for the soldiers to arrive.

The NCO identified himself immediately, and Arthur set to putting him under first. Each of the four had previously experienced dream-share, but only their dreamer had fought a simulated battle before. He was taking his team on a worst-case scenario run in preparation for an assignment. And while the goal was to complete the mission, the focus was to stay alive.

The men were nervous. Their skin was cold when he navigated needle to vein. Sweat shined on foreheads and breathing shallowed as they waited for unconsciousness. He didn't say anything to them, though. No words of encouragement, or reassurance that it'd be fine and there wasn't anything to be afraid of because it wasn't real. That would defeat their purpose.

She came in just after he put them under, like she'd been watching from outside, waiting for the right moment to enter. She tapped lightly on the door and stuck her head inside, her body following soon after. Arthur wasn't expecting a dazzling smile, a hop to the step of a woman who didn't look much older than a graduate student. He fumbled, quickly remembering to set the timer, and moved to greet her.

"Hello," she whispered, holding out her hand. "Evelyn Maher."

"Staff Sergeant Robinson," he said, taking her hand briefly. "You don't have to whisper. They can't hear you."

"Oh," she said with another smile. Her wide eyes shined with curiosity as they shifted to the arrangement of beds. She hadn't been on the job long, but she loved it. He bet she worked behind the desk, and when they let her out in the field for research it was like Christmas for her. She was intelligence personnel. She was CIA.

Arthur moved his gaze up from the lanyard tucked into the front of her blazer as she produced a small digital camera and stepped to the side. He almost stopped her, but remembered his orders. _Just let her do what she wants. _She captured the scene with a flash, and as she did so, asked, "What are they dreaming about?"

"It's a search and rescue," he told her. "Kind of like a dress rehearsal."

"So what's happening in the dream will actually happen in real life?" She asked as she began to step around the beds, her intention to inspect the PASIV.

"A version of it," Arthur said with a nod.

Evelyn stopped, turned to consider him with an inquisitive smile. He watched her with flawless posture, feet apart and planted firmly on the ground, hands locked together behind his back. For a moment his formality felt a little ridiculous around this friendly sprite. She set a small silver recorder down on the table beside the PASIV, and pressed against it. "Care to elaborate on that Staff Sergeant?"

He knew her device had the ability pick up his voice even if it had been in another room, so he didn't try to move closer to it. "It's a simulated combination of possible scenarios. This fireteam is leaving on their mission tonight. The team leader," he nodded to the man on his left. Evelyn stood at the foot of his bed, and her eyes turned down to the soldier. "It's his dream. He worked with strategists and architects to build a replica of the world his men would be entering. The environment, climate, geography and cityscape. They know the position of the distressed unit, the layout and detail of the facility down to stains on the carpets – it's all the same."

"Intelligence acquires that kind of detail for you?"

"Yes."

"How long does that process take?"

"Depends," he said with a shrug. "If it's priority, as quick as a few days."

She nodded, and snapped a picture of the sleeping NCO. "When you die in a dream, you wake up."

"Correct," he said.

"Wouldn't that disturb their stability? If they died fighting in a simulation, they think they'll die in the actual event."

"Not exactly." Arthur stepped forward. "It's a training exercise. This NCO has his men running on a worst-case scenario. That could mean a maximum security threat. It could mean the distressed unit isn't where they should be. It could mean their escape vehicle won't start, or their tires blew out. It could be a combination of problems. When they wake up, they'll have enough time for quarterbacking before they try again in reality."

Evelyn lightly ran her fingertips over the IV protruding from the soldier's wrist, and Arthur struggled to refrain from telling her not to touch it. "How long are they down there for?"

"In their world? Thirty-six hours."

"And in ours?"

"Three."

Her eyebrows rose in interest, and she gave him another smile. She wasn't asking him to start with the basics. She already knew the history of Project Somnacin. She knew how the PASIV worked, and she understood the basic concept of dream-share. Her interest was in the how and the why of the military's continuing use. She wanted to learn their methods and she wanted to know how it affected those using it.

The government was trying to put a cap on their own creation. Unfortunately it had already spread beyond their control. Project Somnacin was no longer solely a military experiment.

"There really is an air of mystery to it all, isn't there?" she said. It wasn't a question he had to answer. "How do two people share a dream? Or a group?" She swept her hand in a gesture to the unconscious soldiers. "Performing a mission, navigating a mind, _extracting _from a mind…consciously."

Arthur could see her working hard to understand it all. She'd never experienced shared dreaming. She didn't understand that you _didn't _have to understand the technicalities of it all for it to work. "Lucid dreaming," he said, with the intention to expand on the subject. But when she looked up at him, he found himself silenced by the humor in her eyes.

"The best kind of dreaming there is," she said. "Actively participating in your own dream, being able to alter its events by will. Tell me, if you are in a dream, and you are able to consciously perceive that world and what's happening in it, how can you distinguish what's real from what isn't?"

"You acknowledge that you are in a dream," Arthur said. "It's what's worked just fine so far, but no one's been under long enough to begin to lose their grip on reality."

"But it's a possibility," she said.

"It's the U.K., isn't it? The ones who are pioneering the longitudinal studies."

"France as well."

"Then I'm sure we'll have an answer to that soon, and you'll be the first to know."

Evelyn gave a small laugh. "And what about training? If you learn to fight, learn to kill in the dream world, do those skills translate into the waking world?"

"Yes and no," Arthur said. "A skill is a trained memory, but it is also a muscle reflex. You will remember and know how to do something, but when it comes to physical technique the body won't be so quick to follow."

He couldn't help but give a quiet snort of amusement as she bent down to inspect the PASIV, snapping multiple pictures. It was like watching a kid in a candy shop. The more he told her, the more she wanted to know, and he was happy to answer her questions. He allowed her to slap one of the soldiers to test the strength of the Somnacin, watched as she immediately kneaded the man's cheek and apologized quietly for her assault. Her humanity, a weakness – the reason why she wasn't a field agent, though it was becoming increasingly clear that she wanted to be.

A gasp broke a momentary silence and Evelyn jumped, standing from the edge of the bed and turning to look at the soldier behind her. He breathed heavily, eyes wide as the fog in his mind cleared away and he began to register that he was no longer in a war zone. The soldier frantically scanned over his torso, and then he sat up with a growl, red in the face as he ripped the IV from his arm. Arthur strode to his bedside and drew Evelyn back as the soldier tossed the needle away from him, propelled himself off the bed and stomped from the room.

"He died?" Evelyn asked as Arthur stepped forward and removed the needle from the tubing.

"Yes," he said.

* * *

"Do you mind if I ask what your first name is?"

Arthur walked side by side with Evelyn down a cement path winding over the grounds. The sky was overcast, trapping the heat, a lack of breeze leaving unsettled dust hanging in the air. A formation of Privates jogged by in synchronized footfall, and she smiled to herself as she watched them pass. "Arthur," he said, and she repeated the name quietly.

"Do you like Arthur, or would you prefer if I called you Staff Sergeant?" Dirt gave way to patchy grass as they continued along the path toward housing.

"Arthur's fine," he said. "Permission to ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"You're CIA, right? How'd you get in on that?"

"Are we that easy to identify around here, or is it just you Special Ops guys that have an eye for it?"

Arthur gave a brief chuckle. "It was pretty easy to guess after my commander told me to attend to you like you were the President."

"Did he really say that?"

"No, but it was insinuated."

Evelyn laughed lightly, and Arthur's eyes moved to her mouth to watch her smile. It was a wonderful smile. He found himself becoming increasingly curious about this woman, but knew it would be inappropriate to ask her anything personal. "Well to answer your question, it took a lot of references, a _very _lucky internship, and an extremely conveniently-timed opening. They needed the position filled quick, and I already knew how to do the job."

"That is lucky," he said after a moment's consideration. "Man."

"Arthur, I want to thank you for putting up with me today. You've made my job immensely easier, and infinitely more interesting."

"Glad I could." They veered to the right of the fork in their path toward guest parking, and Arthur briefly lifted the camouflage cap on his head to scratch his scalp. "So what do you think about it?"

"About Project Somnacin?"

"Yes."

"I think…" she allowed herself a moment to sort through her thoughts. "I think it's a fascinating art. But it won't be used for good. It's a tool for espionage, and psychological torture. It's an ethical issue, as our minds are now subject to invasion, and we have to reacknowledge the never-ending debate of right to privacy versus national security. If we do choose to expand the program, we'll have to militarize our subconsciences, train them to protect every piece of classified information stored in our minds. I think we have a lot to learn, but…"

She stopped walking, and Arthur bit back a smile. She was searching the parking lot. Then her gaze shifted to the sky, down to the ground, and then to the housing units they stood between – long and stark white with push-up windows, like old schoolhouses. She turned around and her eyes roamed the grounds, landing on the formation of Privates that had passed them minutes ago, standing at a distance in perfect rows, bodies facing their direction. She ran up the length of a flagpole, watching curiously as the stars and stripes flapped and blended at a slow, graceful speed.

Evelyn rounded on him quickly at that moment, hands on her hips, and he was happy to see the glowing wonder in her eyes, the pleased grin stretching her lips. "We're dreaming, aren't we?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he fought to keep his expression impassive. "How'd you know?"

She released a quick breath of laughter in excitement as she twisted to look around again. "My car isn't in that parking lot. How much time do we have?"

* * *

"Absolutely not."

Eames took much pleasure in watching the grim expression on his old friend's face fall to pure irritation. He smiled a little, which only made Arthur's jaw muscles ripple as he clenched his teeth together. "I wouldn't have personally flown out here to ask you this if it wasn't so important."

"Yes, a phone call might have sufficed, as I would've given you the same answer. No."

Arthur hesitated, and then stiffly picked up his glass for a long drink of the amber liquid. Eames followed suit, watching the point man over the brim of his own glass. "I want her," Arthur said.

Eames' brow shot up at his forwardness, and he leaned back into his chair with a snort. "Remind me why, again."

"Job security, Eames," Arthur stressed, like he'd already told him a thousand times. "She's a serious investment. She understands the technicalities. She knows how to build. She knows how to extract. She's not the best, but she can get there, and she can do it quickly. Cobb's been struggling since Mal. He needs time, and I need to know that I can move forward with a job without him."

"There are plenty of extractors and architects out there," Eames emphasized his point by gesturing to himself.

"I need someone I can trust."

Eames feigned offense, but inside he was laughing. Arthur waited almost three years for this little bird to free up, and he waited patiently. The United States had been on the brink of economic collapse for some time. When the empire did come tumbling down in a wonderfully dramatic financial crisis, Arthur knew that was his window. Not even the government would be exempt from feeling the effects of a nasty recession.

He waited for Evelyn Maher to reappear in civilian records, and snatched her up before the poor woman could even box up the items on her desk.

He had to admit he was surprised to hear that the woman was interested in Arthur's offer. From what he understood, she was in Intelligence. She would be resourceful. But she had no field experience or military training, which meant she'd be a shit fighter, an awful interrogator, even worse at deceiving, and he'd be genuinely surprised if she knew how to properly hold a gun. If the desk workers were anything like those with British Intelligence, he wasn't impressed.

Nor was he impressed by her apparent ability to extract. A child could complete a simple version of the task if they knew what they were looking for. Apart from that, she'd advocated the shelving of Project Somnacin until further studies could sway the laws of ethics one way or another.

Now this woman expressed interest in joining Arthur's team, which disregarded ethics altogether as they commenced in an increasingly high-demand form of business espionage. Dream-share had vastly expanded in a very short amount of time. Those involved in the art were no longer asking what they could do, but rather how far could they go, and more specifically how far could they go without getting caught. The process was dangerous and not for the faint of heart. She didn't seem a woman fit for the challenge.

"If she's your investment, then I don't see why I'm the one that has to train her," Eames said lightly, bringing an ankle up to rest on his knee.

"Cobb and I have three jobs back-to-back. I would if I had time, but I don't. And I know you do. You screwed up that LCC International job, and now you're lying low."

Eames groaned, pulling at the lapels of his suit jacket as he leaned back further. "Well now I'm really not doing you any favors."

"I'm paying you a large sum of money."

"I do love money, but it isn't always everything, darling. I was looking forward to a long vacation."

He was just waiting for Arthur to reach across the table and pound him into agreeing. But he held onto his patience, sitting stalk-straight with an unwavering stare. The last time he saw the young soldier was Mal's memorial. He still had a military buzz then, but his black hair was quickly growing out.

Arthur's eyes shined with an idea suddenly, and without slouching in his posture, reached into his pocket and withdrew his mobile. His eyes turned down to the screen as he held the phone low in his lap, pressing buttons and scrolling through files. Then he set it down on the table between them. "That's Evelyn."

Eames took a quick drink, sighing as he placed the glass on the table and picked up the phone. Displayed on the screen was a photograph of a lovely woman. Fair-skinned, flowing hair. He could not see the color of her eyes, as they were closed in laughter. But red-stained lips spread over porcelain teeth in a remarkable smile, and he lingered on that mouth longer than he should have. She had a generic beauty about her, but beauty all the same. The photograph was taken on a military base, thus it was safe to assume it was a few years old.

"Oh, Arthur!" he fawned for his own amusement. "You should've shown me this first, I never would've refused you!"

Arthur drew back a fraction in confusion and suspicion. "So you'll train her."

Eames' eyes softened and narrowed. "Oh, I'll do a whole lot more than that."

"Eames, I swear to God-"

"Easy there, soldier," he soothed, and then chuckled. "Are you sure this is just business, and not pleasure?"

"Positive. Say you'll train her."

"How long will you and Cobb be gone?"

"Eight weeks."

The forger took another long look at the photograph, and considered his gains and losses. His biggest loss was leisure, and the privilege to do absolutely nothing whenever he fancied. The loss of freedom to go almost anywhere and do almost anything so long as it was out of grabbing distance of grudging corporations would be painful. His biggest gain was Arthur's generous price for his services, as well as the company of an attractive woman for eight weeks.

Though, that could also be considered a loss, if he really thought about it. He chose not to.

Eames lightly tossed the mobile down onto the table with a sigh, turning his gaze out the window as he said, "Put her on a plane to Guadalajara in ten days."

* * *

_I feel like it's necessary to write a full-fledged analysis paper on the theory of dream-share before you even begin to tackle an Inception story. So much research. SO. MUCH. RESEARCH. My technicalities and explanations will improve with my understanding, so don't be too hard on me if something sounds like it doesn't make sense. It will eventually!_

_I'll warn you now. I love me some Arthur, but I don't believe there needs to be a love triangle to complicate this story. He will, however, have a large presence and an influential role (naturally)._

_All right! Let's see how this chapter fares. Tell me what you think! :)_


End file.
